


Epiphany

by nicky69



Series: Close To You [3]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Adult Content, Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-20
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2017-11-02 07:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/366231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicky69/pseuds/nicky69
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Epiphany- sudden realisation; a sudden intuitive leap of understanding. Gils eyes are opened and he moves to take matters into his own hands. Pre-slash.AN: betaed by those wonderful ladies, elmyraemilie and syrenslure. Any mistakes that you find are my own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Epiphany

**Epiphany**

“I don’t think it was about you, Nick.”

 

Gil regrets those words.

 

 When Nick had stood before him, battered and bruised, and asked, “Why me?” his brain had kicked onto automatic pilot, responding with information learned by rote and filed away automatically. Cold, impersonal information, a rational explanation for an irrational act; facts and theories that fit into Gil’s ordered, logical little world, but brought neither comfort nor consolation. He couldn't contemplate an alternative.

 

How could he have been so stupid -- or so blind?

 

They all had left him there; _he_ had left him there. Gil had left Nick alone, injured and distressed, in that cold, grubby little room, because he was too confused, too afraid to understand, to show his true feelings for him, or to risk his heart. He’s ashamed to admit it, but he hadn’t wanted to see or understand the depths of Nick’s pain; it had scared him too much. So, while the others returned to the lab and their everyday existence, Nick had swallowed his pain and his distress. He pulled himself together and went to stay with Warwick for a few days, until his home was no longer an active crime scene. By the time he came back to work a week later, he seemed to be doing fine. He was the same old Nick, smiling and joking, and that should have been the first clue that something was wrong.

 

No one recovers from something like what Nick had endured so quickly -- not even someone as well adjusted and even-tempered as Nick Stokes.

 

Looking back on it, Gil thinks that they were all so desperate for Nick to be okay, that they had simply turned a blind eye any time that Nick had acted out of character, afraid to call him on his behaviour lest they reawaken unpleasant memories of his ordeal. Not one of them had the courage to challenge him or ask about his state of mind and eventually, without their assistance, Nick seemed to return to his old dependable self. Satisfied with his apparent recovery, they had moved on, thinking that Nick had done the same.

 

 Each new shift brought new crimes to their desks and fresh victims who required their attention, and in their haste to return to normality, the team had all but forgotten the monster who had struck so close to home. But, he cast a long shadow over Nick -- longer than any of them had known… until now.

 

*********************************************************************

 

“Just another day in paradise.”

 

Watching as Nick walked away, Gil couldn’t help but notice the slump of his shoulders, wasn't able to forget the look of dejection that blanketed his beautiful face. There seemed to be an air of weariness about Nick these days that Gil has never seen before. It’s as if Nick had lost that indomitable spirit that was the fire at the core of his being. He seemed somehow… diminished. That notion scared Gil in a way no criminal, no crime, and no mortal peril had ever done.

 

Nick has always been the dependable one, the one Gil could count on to get the job done. He wasn't as fiery as Catherine, perhaps not as focused as Sara, nor as intuitive as Warrick, he has an almost empathic understanding of both victim and crime that leaves Gil in awe. Nick is a superlative investigator, an outstanding scientist, and compassionate, captivating man.

 

He holds Gil’s orphan heart in the palm of his hand, and he doesn’t even know it.

 

That night as the shift is winding down, Gil asks Greg, in as round about a way as he can, how Nick and Warrick are adjusting to swing shift. It's a pitiful attempt to glean some information on Nick without being too obvious, but he’s worried about him. He has missed him. Looking a little surprised by Grissom’s interest, Greg babbles on for a while about Warrick having some issues with Catherine, before Gil was able to steer the conversation back around to Nick.

 

“Well, not that I’m seeing much of him myself these days,” Greg says, “but if you ask me, he seems a little down.”

 

“Really?” Grissom asks, trying to keep the conversation casual, while pumping Greg for more info, “I can’t say that I’ve noticed.”

 

It bothered Gil more than a little to see Greg roll his eyes at his apparent lack of people skills, and he looked a little smug to have caught Grissom out. However, as he took in his superior’s sombre expression he sobered and replied. “Aw, come on Griss, you must have noticed how quiet he’s been. I haven’t seen him like this since the Kirkwood case. You remember that? Don’t you?”

 

Something in Grissom’s face must have telegraphed his comprehension, because Greg backed off a little. That had been a bad one. “I guess he’s just going through a rough patch.  It happens to the best of us, right, Gris?”

 

“So speaks the voice of experience, Greg?”

 

Greg had the decency to blush, before he claimed that he had evidence to process and all but ran from under Grissoms’s gaze. However, instead of feeling reassured, as he set off down the hall, intending to take care of some long overdue paperwork, Gil felt the first tentative fingers of unease begin to creep up his spine. The first thing he did when he reached the cool respite of his office was look up the file on the Kirkwood case and began to read.

 

*******************************************************************

 

It had started out as what looked like two separate cases, a mummified corpse in a closet and an apparently simple B&E. However, as the evidence began to accumulate and converge, the similarities were too many to be coincidental. The discovery of prints from the same man at both scenes had taken them in a whole new direction. They had deduced that both times the intended crime had been home invasion; the death of Madeline Foster and the rape of Angela Kirkwood had been mere crimes of opportunity to the perpetrators. Gil remembered how they had discussed the crime and its motivation. He had blithely said that the difference between burglary and home invasion was the infliction of terror, as if that cold assessment could convey the difference between the brutality and emotional repercussions of either act.

 

“Bad guys leave, fear just stays behind.” Nick had said.

 

Gil hadn’t paid it any attention at the time, too busy with his own thoughts on the case, but now that he thinks back on it Nick’s voice had seemed rougher than usual, his accent a little bit stronger, as he had uttered those words. The accent should have tipped Gil off; it always came to the forefront when Nick was upset or emotional, or just past too tired, but Gil had ignored it – just like he had managed to ignore or overlook the pinched expression on Nick’s face, or the ghostly pallor that crept over his skin, as he had listened to the victim describe her ordeal.

 

Nick had excused himself from the observation room then, and Gil had found him soon after, hunched over the toilet bowl in the restroom. When he asked if Nick was okay, the sound of his voice, overloud in the otherwise quiet restroom, had startled Nick, causing him to jump, as if he had been somewhere else, unaware of Grissom’s presence. For a moment Nick’s face had been a mask of fear and sheer panic. He quickly managed to get his feet under him and walk to the sink, and that look was gone, replaced by Nick’s perpetual mask of 'good ol' boy' southern charm. Only his eyes retained a ghost of his previous guarded and weary expression. As he had splashed some cold water on his face and neck, Gil had asked again.  “Nick are you OK? Do you need to take some time?”

 

Nick had just shrugged off Gil’s concern with a pale imitation of his usual blinding smile. “I’m fine, Gris. Really. Must have been something I ate. Let’s go catch some bad guys.”

 

Gil had pretended not to see the slight trembling of Nick’s hands. He pretended not to notice when Nick shrank back from Gil’s hesitant touch on his shoulder, his clumsy attempt at reassurance.  Coward that he was, he had let it slide, telling himself that Nick was just having an off day -- it got to all of them occasionally -- but deep in his bones he knew that it was more.

 

*********************************************************************

 

When the case was over, after that poor young woman had been murdered outside her own home, Nick seemed to bounce back and return to some semblance of his old self. He had laughed and joked with Greg, and continued his healthy competition and friendly ribbing with Warrick. However, the evidence of his continuing withdrawal was clear enough for those that had eyes and a will to see it. With each new case, each new victim, the shadows in his eyes grew a little darker and his step -- when he thought that he was unobserved -- was a little heavier. On the job, he remained as diligent and meticulous as ever; no one could fault him. And if the crimes that seemed to affect him most were sexual assaults, who could blame him? They all had their hot buttons, crimes that incensed and disgusted, and motivated them more than most.  Why should Nick be any different?

 

But he was, he was different.

 

 

Nick had always been sensitive to cases which had involved the victimization of a child -- a hot button for all of them if the truth be known -- but for Nick it had always seemed more personal and Gil had often tried not to ponder the significance of that. He'd pondered, but never found the courage to ask Nick about it. He didn't want to know. He didn’t ask, because he was afraid that he would see the hideous truth in Nick’s eyes. He didn’t ask, because he wasn’t ready to face that truth. When had that changed?  When had he changed, wanting to know everything, regardless of the consequences?

 

Tracing backwards through past cases -- the calendar by which Gil measured his days -- he thinks it was round about the time that Nick returned from his (mandated) sick leave after the Nigel Crane incident. Nigel Crane, that crazed, demented little man who had stalked and murdered Jane Galloway and left her as a gift for Nick, like a demented cat and mouse. Nigel Crane, the man who had lived in Nick’s attic, watching his every move, his every breath. Nigel Crane, who had wanted Nick, had wanted to be Nick, had wanted to swallow Nick’s very soul.

 

Sitting alone in the gloomy confines of his office, Gil could see clearly in his mind’s eye the hours of videotapes that Nigel produced. Yes, it was clear that he had wanted Nick's attention, his friendship, but now Gil began to suspect that Nigel had hungered for more. Reassessing the evidence, not only with the unprejudiced eye of an investigator, but with his heart, Gil could see the undercurrent of sexual desire and compulsion that Nigel had exhibited with regard to Nick. It ran deeper than he had ever imagined.

 

The haunted look that had shrouded Nick’s face in the observation room after Nigel’s arrest now took on a much more sinister meaning. They had all assumed that Nick’s blank expression and his aversion to being touched were side affects from his earlier injuries and the shock of Morris Pearson’s death.  Now with a growing certainty, Gil began to think that was only part of the truth.

 

Gil could feel his heart rate begin to climb in response to the images and emotions that were washing over him and he struggled to regain control. ‘Okay, get a grip. Follow the evidence and see where it leads. The evidence never lies.’ taking a calming breath, he did just that. His frantic mind began to pore over every case that he had worked with Nick before and after that, looking for differences, for the telltale signs of Nick's distress. The signs were subtle, but in retrospect Gil could see they were there. His mood swings, his irrational anger, and his silent withdrawal from all those around him, Nick had been broadcasting his distress, and trained observers that they were, they had all missed it. Gil felt his gorge rise, threatening to choke him, but he forcefully swallowed his anger and his disgust.  There were more important things here than his own fury.

 

Gil wanted nothing more than to jump into his car and run to Nick, grab him in his arms and never let him go. A clichéd and inappropriate response, but an honest one. Ever fibre of his being cried out to him to protect Nick, to shelter the man that he loved, but he didn't have that right. His cowardice now returned to haunt him, frustrating him with his inability to fix this situation, or to even provide comfort. Gil knew that he could not explain his suspicions without revealing his own intentions, could not break down down Nick's walls without crumbling his own. Cold and emotionless though some thought him to be, he knew he could not withstand Nick’s earnest gaze without revealing all.

 

Was he ready to do that?

 

A lifetime of emotional autism held Gil in its grip.  He was unprepared for this kind of revelation. He feared his own emotions, but more than that, he feared that he was indeed correct about Nick’s ordeal. Gil prayed to his childhood’s resurrected god, that he was wrong, but he feared the worst. He needed to know the truth before he spoke to Nick, had to know what he would face. There was only one way this could play out. He had to speak to Nigel Crane.

 

*********************************************************************

 

Nigel Crane was incarcerated in the Lakes Crossing Centre for the Mentally Disordered Offender in Sparks. From Vegas it was at least a three and a half hour trip each way, depending on traffic, so Gil made arrangements to go visit him on his next day off -- three days away. He told no one. Instead, he holed up in his office and quietly reviewed Nick’s, Jane Galloway’s and Morris Pearson’s case files. The sheer amount of video evidence that been transcribed was of itself staggering. Nigel Crane had spent hours creating his secret monologues, recording his own life and that of his victims in excruciating detail. His every desire, his hopes, his aspirations were all on those tapes for all to see, sitting uncomfortably alongside his psychosis.

 

The three day wait was both a blessing and a curse. It gave Gil time to organize the details of his trip, his appointment with Nigel Crane, and his own mind. It also allowed him to surreptitiously watch Nick, and that was the rub. He found himself alternatively wanting to be near Nick, aching to comfort him one minute, and then perversely trying to avoid him. Gil’s own conflicting responses frightened him, but not as much as the prospect of failing Nick. He would not--could not allow that to happen. Not again.

 

The three day wait had seemed alternately interminable and frighteningly immediate. Gil had tried to use the time to figure out what he would say, what he would do, but standing in line in the boarding area, he found himself at a loss. If this was just another case, if this was merely business as usual, he would be calm and assured. This wasn't just another case. This was Nick. He knew that he can’t afford to screw this up. He barely registered the mandatory security checks, the luggage searches, and the wait for take-off as he let his mind wander to his upcoming meeting. The flight itself seemed to—well—fly by, and almost before he knew it, they were descending into Reno.

 

He forced himself to pay attention to the unfamiliar roads, as he followed his pre-prepared route map to his destination. With a wry smile, he realized it would do no one any good if he got himself killed because his mind wasn’t on the road. Luckily for him, it was only a thirty minute drive from the airport to the facility and he made it with time to spare for his appointment. He sat in the car, trying to calm himself, to appear professional before he exited his vehicle and headed inside.

 

Gil’s hands were steady, his breathing measured and controlled as he spoke with Crane’s primary physician, Dr. Quinn. A well spoken gentleman with a strong New England accent, Dr. Quinn was surprisingly young, appearing to be in his early thirties, if even that. Somehow, Gil had expected the man to be older. Through their previous phone conversations discussing Nigel’s case and Gil’s reasons for visiting, Gil had come to respect this man. He seemed to genuinely care not only about the welfare of his patient, but for the welfare of his patient's victims. His intelligence and compassion, so evident in the tone of his voice, shone from his warm brown eyes as he took in the man before him.

 

“Mr. Grissom, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you,” he said, extending a large warm hand to grasp Gil’s in an easy handshake.

 

“As it is you, Dr. Quinn, but please, call me Gil.”

 

“Gil it is,” he returned, “And please, call me John.”

 

The pleasantries over, they begin to walk, John leading him further into the building. Gil’s stomach was rolling, fear squeezing his guts and he swallowed, trying to maintain his outward appearance of calm. In a matter of minutes he found himself standing in an observation room, behind one-way glass staring at Nigel Crane. A feeling of déjà vuswept over him and he had to stop himself from turning around to look for the rest of is team, to look for Nick.

 

“Would you like me to accompany you Gil? Or would you rather that I remain and observe from here? Nigel can be a little off-putting if you don’t know him.”

 

“No, I’ll be fine John. I’d rather speak to him alone, but thank you.”

 

Taking a deep steadying breath, Gil pushed open the door to the interview room and came face to face with Nigel Crane. It was almost an anti-climax. In his mind, Gil had built Nigel up to be some enormous beast. After all, he couldn’t imagine anything else that could have frightened Nick so badly, but in the flesh Nigel was something of a disappointment. He had a slight, inconsequial appearance -- not particularly tall, with a slender build and wearing ridiculously thick glasses, with heavy frames, that distorted his eyes. He seemed almost harmless. However, the intensity of his gaze when he stared at Gil, made the veteran CSI uncomfortable in the extreme, and Gil struggled not to squirm in his chair. In his career, Gil had met plenty of killers -- cold blooded individuals who took another’s life for a variety of reasons, both trivial and mundane. However, he had never seen eyes like these. The light that shone from Nigel’s eyes was laced with insanity, obsession, and purpose.

 

“Mr. Crane, my name is Gil Grissom. I’m a criminalist with Clark County and I’d like to speak to you about Nick Stokes.”

 

At the mention of Nick’s name a flash of emotion swept over Nigel’s previously blank face and his eyes seem to burn with renewed fire. A slow, sly smile spread over his features and watching as Nigel shifted in his chair, seemingly adjusting himself, Gil began to feel sick to his stomach.

 

“I see you Nick, do you feel me? Can you feel me?”

 

The way that Nigel said those words, speaking as if Nick was actually in the room, sent shivers racing up Gil’s spine. Looking into Nigel’s eyes, Gil could see memories being relived. Emotions played over Nigel’s face, need, want, lust—satisfaction. Nigel rubbed his hands absently over his crotch, fondling himself, and he licked his lips, lost for a moment in the past.

 

“You’re so tight, Nicky, so good. So tight and hot and beautiful, just like I knew you would be. I know I’m you’re first. I'm going to make it good. Is it good for you, too?”

 

When his eyes cleared, Nigel fixed his gaze on Gil. “Do you know what it’s like to have a friend Mr. Grissom? I do.” He didn’t wait for Gil’s answer. “Nick’s my friend, my special friend, he’d do anything for me; he loves me and I love him.”  His pacific smile was nauseating to Gil.

 

He felt sick, his every instinct was telling him to run, to leave this place before he did something that he would later regret, but he couldn’t. If there was ever to be anything between himself and Nick, if they were ever to have a chance at a future together, he had to face the truth of what happened that night; no matter the cost to his own soul. He had to face his own revulsion so that he could help Nick.

 

He’d had his suspicions, he’d watched Nick carefully and come to his own conclusions, but, god help him, hearing Nigel say the words and confirm his worst fears was heartbreaking. He felt as if his entire world had spiralled down and shattered in front the man sitting so innocuously before him. Never in his life had he felt so battered by his emotions; he had never felt such rage towards another human being. Right there, in that anonymous, impersonal room he wanted to reach out and kill Nigel Crane. He wanted to watch as the life drained from his worthless corpse; he wanted him to suffer as Nick had.

 

It was only with great difficulty that Gil allowed none of his feeling to show in his outward appearance, and to the doctor observing his interaction with Nigel he was the epitome of professionalism, but inside he was a heaving sea of anger and grief. What had been taken from Nick was irreplaceable, and Gil feared that he would never be able to heal the damage that Nigel had wrought on his beloved’s soul. He was going to give everything to try, though.

 

Gil endured the remainder of his session with Nigel only for the sake of knowing the entire truth of what had happened that fateful night in Nick’s home, and Nigel, in his smug delusion, was more than happy to supply him with all of the intimate details. Finally, when it was over, Nigel was led away by a faceless guard and Gil found himself once more in John Quinn’s company. The doctor met Gil’s eyes with professional sympathy, but his solemn gaze failed to register the personal price that gaining this new insight had cost the man currently before him.  Eager to make his own notes on their exchange, he bid Gil goodbye with the promise of a follow up call in the days to come. Gil was glad to see him go, and with a weary step and a heavy heart, he headed back to his car seeking the meagre sanctuary that it could provide from the truths that could no longer be denied.

 

Once inside, he locked the doors, shutting the outside world away, if only for a brief respite, and it was only then that he allowed himself to react to the knowledge that he now possessed.

 

The car was baking hot inside, but Gil’s body trembled as if assaulted by the cold. He lowered his head, until it rested on the steering wheel, eyes squeezed tightly shut as if to keep reality, and his approaching migraine, at bay. All it did was allow his imagination to play out anguished scenes of Nick’s violation by Crane on the inside of his eyelids, and he quickly opened his eyes again. God, he felt like he was going to be sick. Yes, he had suspected that something bad had happened to Nick while he was held by Crane, more than Nick had let on, but to have that suspicion validated so graphically was shocking in the extreme. 

 

Gil felt almost light leaded by his discovery.  He felt adrift, almost weightless, yet crushed by an almost mindless panic. His worst fears had been confirmed. What would he do? What could he do? His gut clenched again, threatening to spew forth what little there is in his stomach. His emotions, normally under such rigid control, were a riot of conflicting responses. Disgust, anger, pity, fear, hatred, love; they all battled for his attention and he felt like he was drowning in an unfamiliar sea.

 

Slowly, he began to cry.

 

He cried for what Nick had lost, and the horrors that he had endured. He cried for lost opportunities, and his own weak nature. Every tear was a bitter regret, a glistening silent icon of what could have been. In their salty residue, he found no resolution, no relief. What he did find, when eventually the flood retreated, was a sense of purpose, an almost uncanny peace; he knew what he must do. It wouldn’t be easy, and again he felt his stomach tighten with dread, but his path was clear to him. He knew what he had to do. Wiping the evidence of his epiphany from his flushed face, he checked his watch, put the car into drive and turned into traffic. It was time to go home.

 

*******************************************

 

Gil made good time on his journey home. Due to his truncated visit with Crane, he had managed to catch an earlier flight than he originally planned. Now barely an hour after disembarking here he was, standing on Nick Stokes doorstep. It was a little after five in the evening, but Gil knew that Nick had the night off, and he’d hoped that he would be home. Gil raised his hand to knock, rapping quickly on the solid wood beneath his hand, before fear could steal away his resolve. Then, he dropped his eyes to stare at his own feet, almost too nervous to meet Nick’s curious gaze when he opened his door and discovered him there.

 

“Hey, Gris.” Nick seemed surprised to see him there, seemed almost at a loss for words, but his upbringing swung into action, and he stepped back gesturing Grissom inside with a friendly wave.

 

“Long time no see, man, come on in. Can I get you something to drink? Beer, water, coffee?” As he talked, Nick was already walking towards his refrigerator, swinging the heavy door open in his search of refreshment.

 

“You know, I think I still have a few of those chocolate covered crickets that you like in here, you up for some?”

 

“Whatever you’re having will be fine, Nick,” Gil says.

 

Despite the serious nature of his discovery and his anxiety over what was to come, Gil can’t help but get a tiny rush of pleasure from the knowledge that Nick kept his favourite snacks on hand. He knows that even though Nick had tried one of the candied insects, he had only done so to please Gil. That he would keep them handy just in case Gil dropped by was an unexpected act of affection, and Gil felt his heart swell with gratitude for the action. It was a response all out of proportion with the deed, but in his volatile state, battered and besieged by unaccustomed emotion, Gil felt almost overwhelmed. That Nick could retain such goodness, such instinctive kindness after all that he had endured humbled Gil in the extreme.

 

Returning from the kitchen, two Lone Stars in hand, Nick took in Grissom’s distressed expression and quickly dropped down to sit by him on the couch.

 “Gris, what’s wrong man? Is it—did something happen to one of the guys? Did someone get hurt?” Nick’s voice rose a fraction on that last word, his accent noticeably thicker, as his panic levels rose, in the face of Grissom’s unaccustomed show of emotion.

 

 “Come on man, you’re scaring me here. Is everyone okay?. God, don’t tell me something happened to Cath…”

 

With a wave of his hand Gil cut Nick off, blue eyes finding the courage to seek out brown and he simply stated,

 

“No, Nick it’s nothing like that. Everyone is fine. I just…I just…” Gil’s voice trailed off, unable for once to find the words to express what he was thinking.

 

Breathing a little easier now that he knew his friends were alright, Nick tried to lighten the load of his obviously overwrought companion.

 

 “Jeez, Gil. This is the first time I’ve ever seen you at a loss for words. What happened? Did Ecklie actually act like a human being for once, 'cause you know, that would have floored me too. Don’t tell me one of your racing cockroaches got out again? Because there’s no way I’m hunting down one of those little suckers again, man. That was just plain nasty. What is it?”

 

Looking at Nick’s open, honest face, and knowing that what he was about to say would set Nick’s world on its axis Gil felt like a bastard, but he didn’t let it stop him. He knew it was now or never and he dropped the bomb.

 

“I went to see Nigel Crane today, Nick. I know what he did to you.”

 

“What…what are you talking about, Gris?” Nick’s smile faltered perceptibly, his face draining slowly of colour, and his hands began to shake, but he tried valiantly to regroup. “You already knew what he did to me. Wasn't exactly a secret.”

 

“Nick.” Gils’s hand snaked out to tentatively rest on Nick’s leg before he continued. “Nick, I know what he did to you – everything. You don’t have to pretend anymore. You don’t have to hide from me.”

 

Gil’s gaze never faltered, his eyes locked on Nick’s face. Only his hand moved, squeezing Nick’s knee with what he hoped was a reassuring touch, before he spoke again.

 

 “I know that he raped you.”

 

The significance of those last words seemed to fall heavily in the silence that followed, sucking all warmth from the previously cosy and welcoming room. They fell heavily, too, on the man sitting by his side, and Gil hardly dared to breathe. Instead he waited, his heart thundering in his chest, wishing that Nick would say something, do something… anything but sit passively by his side looking shell-shocked and immeasurably older.

 

 “How?” Nick’s voice sounded broken, weary and Gil’s last fleeting hope that this was all some horrible mistake withered and died. “How can you know? I never told…I never told anyone. It was our secret.”

 

Nick’s face, when he raised it, was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. Fear, shame, anger, embarrassment, they washed over his features almost too quickly for Gil to process. Like waves in a storm-tossed sea, they battered resolutely at Nick’s defences. They smashed through his carefully erected levees, eroding his control, and their power and beauty was frightening to behold.  Gil could only watch and wait and pray, as Nick rode out this tempest. He prayed that Nick was not too damaged by his experiences to accept what he had yet to say.

 

Just as Gil was beginning to doubt the wisdom of his revelation, as he cursed his foolish heart and prepared himself to make a hasty exit, Nick surprised him by rising rapidly to his feet and beginning to pace. He didn’t say anything for several interminable minutes, and when he did speak his words went straight to Gil’s heart.

 

 “You’ve ruined everything.”

 

“What?” Confused, Gil could only muster this one word answer. Before he could rally his truant intelligence, Nick spoke again, more forcefully this time. “You’ve ruined everything now. Do the others know? I never wanted anyone to know.”

 

He never wanted anyone, especially not his friends, to know what he had endured. He dreaded the looks of pity and sympathy that he knew would be cast his way. He dreaded and despised them almost as much as the never-ending gossip and innuendo that would be sure to follow his every moment in the lab.

 

 “No, Nick. I wouldn't do that. No one else knows and that’s the way it will stay unless you say differently.”

 

Nick’s dark eyes stared at him then, silently taking his measure before they slid away from Gil’s concerned gaze and settled blindly on the floor between them

 

“.I just…I just…I’ve had enough of people looking at me like I’m some kind of freak; I can’t go through that again. I won’t.” 

 

“Nick…” Gil’s voice once so hesitant returned a little more forcefully. “Nick, look at me. You’re not a freak, and I don’t ever want you to believe that.”

 

The outraged tone of Gil’s voice broke through the shroud of misery that had settled over Nick when he realized that his most private shame was now pubic knowledge. Looking up, he found himself bewildered by the passion that was evident in the heated blue depths of Gil’s eyes.

 

 “You’re a survivor, Nick. You are the strongest, kindest, most honourable man I have ever known and don’t you ever let anyone tell you differently. I can’t even imagine what you went through, or the courage it must have taken to get on with your life, but I just wanted you to know, Nick that you don’t have to do this alone, not anymore.”

 

For a moment Nick was silent, his mind processing Gil’s words and Gil held his breath in silent anticipation. God, he thought, please don’t let me have blown this.

 

 “What does that mean? What exactly are you offering here, Gil? I don’t need a nursemaid; I’m a grown man I can do this on my own. I don’t need your pity or your sympathy, I’ll be okay. I’m always okay.”  His wry smile was more bitter than convincing.

 

Nick’s own eyes turned inward then, focusing on memories and events from days gone by, and on his beautiful features Gil could see a lifetime of hurt and betrayal play out. Rising to join Nick, Gil reached for the younger man’s neck, his warm hand settling lightly on cool skin. Nick didn’t seem to notice, even when Gil squeezed gently and began to softly stroke the delicate area under his ear.

 

Stepping still closer, Gil could see and feel the infinitesimal tremors that ran through Nick’s body. He could feel Nick’s pulse racing under his hand. His world was filled with Nick and nothing more. Nick was a dichotomy; a man blessed with astonishing strength and moral fortitude, and yet at the same time, he was still capable of breathtaking vulnerability. In the face of evil, against all the odds, he retained an innocence and purity that shone through in almost everything he did. He was a tantalising combination of heat, of need and desire, combined with love and protectiveness, and underlying all of that was the tangible pull of Nick’s physical presence, and his natural scent.

 

Clean and cool, sweet and full of promise it enveloped Gil, making him feel rejuvenated and alive. It was a hint of riches to come and Gil drank it in, taking Nick deep inside him in an almost primal way, forming a connection steadied him and fortified him. His hand moved gently over the peach fuzz that was Nick’s hair in languid, soothing caresses designed to give comfort and succour. As if sensing the innocent intention, Nick’s body leaned almost instinctively into the tender touch, inherently trusting that he would come to no harm in Gil’s arms.

 

They stood like that, frozen in a moment of calm for a long time. With each passing minute, Gil could feel Nick’s body respond to his proximity. Slowly the tension drained from his rigid muscles and his breathing became slow and calm. Finally, the light returned to Nick’s eyes, the ghosts of yesteryear banished by the solid warmth of Gil’s presence and the weight of the man now in his arms.

 

“Gris?”

 

Nick sounded and looked more than a little confused, but he did not pull away from Gil’s embrace and Gil took that as a good sign. At least Nick wasn’t freaking out about finding himself in his ex-boss's arms; so, he figured there’s hope for them yet. Sighing to himself he figured, ‘faint heart never won fair Nick’ and plunged onwards.

 

 “Nick… Nicky. I meant it when I said that you don’t have to do this alone. Let me be here for you, Nick.”

 

“Why?” Nick asked. It was only one word, just three little letters, but it carried with it a host of hidden meaning and far reaching implications.

 

They were so close now that Gil could hear the grinding of Nick’s teeth, as he struggled to keep his emotions under control and for a second he almost chickened out, but one look into Nick’s anguished face and he knew that the time for half truths and lies was past. If there was to be anything more between them than friendship, then, now was the time to be daring. Gil removed his hand from Nick’s neck, repositioning it on the left side of his face while his other hand found Nick’s right cheek. He tugged gently then, making sure that Nick’s gaze was square on his own before he answered.

 

“Because I care about you, Nick. You’re the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning and the last thing on my mind before sleep claims me. My world rises and sets on you, Nicky. I’m only sorry it took me so long to find the courage to tell you.”

 

Time itself seemed to slow then as Gil waited for Nick’s reaction. Each beat of his heart seemed to thunder in his ears, an exaggerated rhythm counting down the seconds to wildly divergent futures. Nick’s eyes squeezed shut then and his body seemed to collapse into itself as his breath burst out in an explosive rush. Fearing the worst, Gil began to back peddle hastily, hands dropping from Nick’s face as he tried to expedite his own departure.

 

Nick, however, had other plans.

 

Taking a step forward, he closed the distance that separated them. Then, he in turn placed his hands on Gil’s face and tugged Gil’s hesitant gaze to meet his own. Gil found that for the first time since he admitted his own knowledge of Crane’s crimes, the look on Nick’s face was no longer one of pained horror, anger or shame. Instead, the first faint glimmerings of hope were flickering there.

 

Hope, the vitality that keeps life moving, that which gives us the courage to carry on in spite of it all. Hope, the balm and lifeblood of the human soul that teaches us to trust again; to dream again. In Nick’s eyes Gil saw a future for them and in his own heart hope blossomed anew.

 


End file.
